Deadlocked

Chapter 9

Mary Kowalczyk lived in a cramped house off of Van Brunt Boulevard, a northeast pocket of the city built before World War II and not much improved since. Small homes and apartment buildings, more tenement than residential, mixed with low-slung businesses that fixed leaky radiators, sold pagers, and rented appliances.

Though old and modest, the house was well maintained, the front porch furnished with a swinging bench suspended beneath a pitched roof. The front of the house was made of stone, the sides covered in clapboard, giving it a sturdy feel. The narrow concrete steps leading up the sloped yard to the front door were lined with summer flowers that were holding their own in the heat, no doubt because Mary was ignoring the emergency ordinance restricting watering.

A white Kia sedan, the front fender creased, was parked in front of her house when Mason pulled up behind it shortly after lunch. A bumper sticker on the rear fender identified the owner as a fan of the St. Mark's Mustangs.

He had to learn as much about Ryan as he did about Whitney, not from the sterile court record, but from the people in their lives. He didn't expect Mary to be an objective historian, but she was the logical person to start with.

Sitting in his car, Mason checked his voice mail for a message from Abby. He snapped the lid of his cell phone shut like it was the phone's fault that Abby hadn't called. He cut the engine letting the car heat up along with his mood, then getting out before he boiled over.

Mary was at her front door, but not because she was waiting for him. Mason hadn't called to say he was coming, preferring the unprepared responses he got when he dropped in on clients and witnesses. Mary had another guest who was leaving. Shading his eyes against the sun, Mason recognized the short, squat figure of the priest who'd been with Mary at Ryan's execution. Father Steve, Mason remembered. He waited for the priest as Mary watched from the porch.

Father Steve, his black pants and short-sleeved black shirt sucking in the heat, took his time, sweat oozing from his temples when he reached Mason. He extended his hand, squinting against the harsh sunlight. Mason caught the sour scent of sweat and cigarettes.

"Mary says you're the lawyer," the priest said.

Mason shook the priest's moist hand. "Lou Mason," he said.

"I've seen your name in the papers," Father Steve said, wiping his hand on his trousers. "Mary's been through quite a lot. I'm not certain she needs your kind of help just now. She needs to grieve for her son and move on. That's what I've told her."

"She believes her son was innocent," Mason said. "Some people can't move on until they know the truth."

"And you, Mr. Mason, you think you can find the truth for Mary?"

"I don't know, Father," Mason answered. "Sometimes the truth gets wrapped up in so many different versions it's hard to separate what people want to be true from what is true. But, maybe you can help me."

Father Steve folded his arms over his middle. "How so?" he asked.

"At Ryan's execution, you told Mary that Ryan had confessed to everything," Mason said. He held up one hand as Father Steve narrowed his eyes and tightened his jaw. "I know confessions are confidential and I wasn't eavesdropping. Everyone in the witness room heard what you said. It made them feel better, hearing a priest say that Ryan had confessed to murder. Is that why you told her that? So she would feel better about watching her son die. Or did he really confess to the murders?"

"A confession is a sacred trust, Mr. Mason. As is the counseling I give to my parishioners. Whatever you may have heard was not intended for your ears and I won't discuss it now."

"The reason I ask, Father," Mason said, "is that Mary didn't believe you. That's why she hired me. Which makes me wonder why a priest would lie about someone confessing to murder? I don't suppose you can help me out with that theological dilemma."

Father Steve tried to hold Mason's eyes, looking away instead as he fumbled in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out, raised it to his mouth then crumpled it, flecks of paper and tobacco sticking to his palm.

Mason took advantage of the priest's discomfort. "Tough habit to kick, Father. Good for you."

"We all have our struggles, Mr. Mason."

Father Steve left him on the sidewalk. Mason watched as the priest wedged himself behind the wheel and shook another cigarette from the pack, a trail of smoke escaping from his window as he drove away.

Mary opened the door for Mason. A weak front of cool air greeted him. The house was dimly lit, shades drawn against the sun, a window air conditioner barely holding its own against the heat, cooling the front room of the house.

"I wasn't expecting so much company," Mary said.

"I should have called," Mason said.

"Oh, that's all right," Mary said, waving her hand. "I don't drive, so I don't get out a lot. Visitors are nice. I made some ice tea. Would you like a glass?"

"Sounds great," Mason said, following her into the kitchen.

A fan sat on the floor, blowing warm air across the room. A portrait of Jesus hung on the wall above a small table with two chairs and a plastic floral arrangement in the center of the table.

"It's cooler in the front room," Mary said, pouring them each a glass of tea, leading him back. "I don't have air-conditioning upstairs, so I've been sleeping on the sofa," she said. "I don't know how the poor people are getting through this heat."

Mary sat on the sofa, while Mason took in the room. The green carpet was worn thin. The walls were paneled to look like wood, the synthetic texture unmistakable. A large crucifix adorned one wall next to a framed high school photograph of Ryan, a shrine within a shrine.

A rectangular aquarium, the water bubbling, housed a handful of colorful striped fish. Mason bent to get a close look. A miniature deep-sea diver was suspended in the water, perfectly weighted to hold his position while the fish swam around him, detouring through a coral reef and a sunken ship half hidden by plastic plants.

"Ryan begged and begged for that aquarium. We finally got it for him when he was ten," Mary said. "I keep it up. I know it's foolish, but there are some things I can't let go of. They remind me of when things were right."

Mason sat in a chair across from the sofa, taking a drink of his tea. "Father Steve thinks you shouldn't have hired me."

"Father Steve has been my priest for thirty years. I know what he thinks," Mary said. "The man can be a comfort, but he's no port in a storm. You told me that Nick Byrnes brought you his file on Ryan's case. Have you looked at it? What do you think?"

She had a mercurial manner, shifting like quicksilver from a soft-spoken invitation for tea to a hard-edged dismissal of her weak-willed clergyman.

"I think there's enough evidence there for me to file a wrongful death case against Whitney King, which is what Nick wants me to do. I don't know if there's enough for me to prove that Ryan was innocent, which is what you want me to do."

"Did you come here to tell me that you're giving up on my case? Because if you are, I'll see this through by myself. My son is dead because of that King boy, just like that poor couple. I'll not rest until that's put right."

Mason shook his head, having no doubt that Mary would leave him behind. "No, I don't give up that easily. I need to know what isn't in that file. I need to know why you are so certain Ryan was innocent."

"You think it's because I'm his mother, don't you?"

"If that's not part of it, you wouldn't be his mother. You sat through the trial and heard all the evidence. There has to be more."

Mary drew circles in the moisture that gathered on her glass of iced tea, not looking up as she answered. "Ryan was a good boy. My husband and I raised him right. He was not capable of killing anyone," she said with a certainty that defied contradiction.

Mason put his glass down on the low table between the sofa and the chair. "Tell me about that night, Mary."

Mary shifted her vision to a middle distance, aiming at the past, not at Mason, speaking so softly Mason had to lean forward to hear.

"They were both on the basketball team at St. Mark's Academy, Ryan and Whitney. Best friends as far as Ryan was concerned. I never believed it. Kings and Kowalczyks don't mix. The Kings lived in a big fancy house. Society people. We were dirt to them. Whitney would come over here looking down his nose at our house. Ryan couldn't see it. Ryan didn't make friends real easily, so I didn't say anything to him. I just knew he'd be sorry if he ever had to count on a boy like that Whitney."

"Had there been any trouble between Ryan and Whitney before that night?" Mason asked.

"If there was, Ryan never said anything. As far as he was concerned, Whitney King hung the moon. Ryan was always talking about Whitney doing this, doing that. Like the boy was some kind of celebrity when all he was, was a snotty kid with a rich daddy."

"Was Whitney with Ryan when he came home that night?" Mason asked.

Mary shook her head, biting her lip. "I was in bed. I worked at Truman Medical Center then and had to go in at five in the morning. Vince, my husband, was working an out-of-town job. I didn't hear Ryan come home."

Mason knew all that, had read Mary's trial testimony, but wanted to hear her tell it, listening for anything that didn't fit. "The police came the next day?"

"Dinnertime," Mary said, her voice rising, her shoulders shivering. "They had a search warrant and they asked for Ryan. I said what's this all about. They wouldn't tell me. There were two detectives and some other officers in uniforms. They swarmed all over my house like locusts," she said, brushing her arms, wiping away the memory like a stain.

"Where was Ryan?" Mason asked.

"In his room. I called up to him. I told him the police were here and wanted to talk to him. He didn't answer. Detective Bluestone, that horrible man at your office, he went upstairs. I could hear Ryan screaming from the kitchen. I don't know what came over me, but I grabbed a butcher knife and ran upstairs, I was so scared. Another policeman grabbed me. They were going to arrest me too, but the other detective, Mr. Ryman, the one you were with at the execution, he made them let me go."

She held her arms tightly against her sides, elbows cocked. It was as if she could feel the cops hands on her again, keeping her from her son.

"Mary," Mason began. "Ryan's clothes were covered with blood from both of the Byrneses. The police found the boys' clothes hidden in your basement. I know the story both boys told. One of them has to be lying. I've got to have something more to go on. How can you be so certain Ryan was innocent?"

Mary looked at Mason, not a trace of doubt on her face. "He had no reason."

"What about Whitney King?" Mason asked. "What reason could he possibly have had?"

"The rich are different, Mr. Mason. They don't need a reason."

Mason looked around the drab room. Mary Kowalczyk, wearing a faded shift that had seen too many hot summers, sat rigidly against the tired cushions of the sofa she slept on. Jesus gazed down at them from his cross. The air conditioner wheezed as the room was shrinking. Mason understood at last. Mary Kowalczyk believed her son was innocent because she hated rich people.